The Spaces You Inhabit
by Nostalgian
Summary: Minvade20.6: PWP, basically. There's the unknown, a little fear, the panic is all but gone, but the desperation is very real, the simple need to feel.


All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** De-anon from Minvasion.

USUK. My favourite. Well actually, **_The Spaces You Inhabit_** is one of my favourites from the minvasion. I think a difficult part of this story - however - was trying to come up with a situation that could genuinely scare a nation, as my headcanon goes they have regenerative powers and can't die.

Which is actually is scarier than death. As America puts it: What would you do to a hostage if they couldn't die?

Also, have some smut. Yeah this is PwP, well there's plot, or there could be, but I didn't care to write it. I suppose how they escape (if I went into that) would be plot. So. Yeah.

PwP.

Maybe I like writing miserable-situation sex?

* * *

_**The Spaces You Inhabit.**_

* * *

The details are, honestly, the most important thing.

America can feel England sweating right into his hands, like he's dissolving, or melting, or a bit of both, and America knows his skin is scorching England. Once you get past the sweat, it's a spartan room and it smells like oily fish, and dim spluttered lights. Once you get past the way it smells, America can taste several days showerless on England, but he's not here to taste England. He's here because Mossad hasn't turned the desert sand in this nowhere to glass, because America's people don't know where they are, because England is stupid little island in the middle of nowhere and there are insurgents, and maybe they can win with America pinned down and England in handcuffs. England's here because, fuck-

America had said that exactly, because it's all he's got. "The fuck are you doing here?"

"We were on a reconnaissance mission." England looked puzzled, green eyes like acid. "Remember?"

"I meant _here_." America spat, but he didn't mean to, and England flickered back, wriggling in his strewn uniform. The fleck of spit is on his cheek, and America snapped out of his handcuffs, reaching over to break through England's. England shook his head and cracked them open himself, like he's tearing into a roasted chestnut. America had eaten roasted chestnuts in musty London; it was dark, and winter and _awesome_. His heart just isn't beating fast enough.

England left the cuffs on the floor like discarded clothes, and America jiggled at the door handle. It doesn't work, so he yanked it out in rage, swearing loudly. It's dark, and hot, and they don't know how to get out, and England paced the room like an agitated, caged lion. Details like what they're doing here.

Their captors got more satisfaction out of kicking America, and he loved every minute of it, in its own way; screaming encouragement at them, so that they focused their attention fully on America. England was left huddled in the corner of the room, his eyes would be wide like a wild animal, because he always looks like he grew up in a totally different definition of humanity. Or so America hoped. Instead England threw himself between the people they're already turning into faceless ideas (it's definitely easier) informing them to go fuck themselves. England is slammed down next to America, and he very evidently sobbed into the concrete. America can feel something warm like piss, but infinitely sticker, pooled out under his trouser leg and his breath hitched.

England licked his lips - his lips are cracked, peeled. Okay, so he's not a nowhere island, but he's still an island and he needed some minerals, America rolled up as he and England are left in the dark again. "Damn, shit, damn, fuck," America pushed his fingers to England's leg, and England hissed. They shot him in the leg. That's so unheroic it's not even funny.

"Leave it." England muttered. "It'll heal and the bullet will come out one way or another." It took him five repeats to get it out, interrupted by choked noises. They curled up together in the darkness, and America said something glib that he can't even remember, but he remembered how England's laugh crept in his ribs.

"Wonder what they'll do when they realize harming us is impossible?" England mused, blood dried between him and America like lovers that tangled their legs up. America and England were tangled close like lovers. America's hands are pressed on the small of England's back like lovers. England's fingers are fisted in America's shirt like lovers. England is either being pessimistic, or he's scared. America's scared. His heart just can't deal with the fear. He tightened his fingers on England's hipbones.

"Come on, dude, let's just sleep."

"We're going to live." England muttered into the the place where America's ribs radiated out. A core of nerves, bundled up.

"Durr." America sniffed, but England's greasy hair is dusted like he's been rolling in a sandpit. Smelt like it too; christ, they smell like rotten copper, and such a human, pervasively sweaty smell. It made America want to confirm his pulse, either with long gasps of air, water, mouthfuls of food, punctured thrusts of the hips, and white stars behind his eyes, maybe go play some baseball too. America sneezed.

"Bless you." England tipped his head up to look at America, and America is still sneezing, eyes running, and there's some snot, and it's not gross, it's not wrong, it's not something that made him scrape his palms on his shirt like the plague is all over him again. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm not." America's body jerked as he gave a final sneeze, and England's wince is open and flawed, because his leg hurt, god, it hurt. And itches. There's a bullet buried there, and that's going to burn for weeks. "Weren't for me, you'd be sipping tea now."

"We're going to live."

"Fuck, stop saying that, Britain." America snapped. "Why d'ya gotta keep saying the obvious?"

"Because your heart is punching me in the ribcage." England muttered. "Forget it."

America had had a few broken ribs a few hours ago, but they're mostly gone. That's scary. "We don't have limits." England looked back at his eyes, and America can't help but be furious that humans are colourblind in the dark. "So, they'll like - they're gonna keep goin' and-" England shuddered in the knot of his arms. "H-hey, don't shake like that."

"Some hero you are." England traded bodyheat with America by pressing closer, and shaking into the spaces he took up in the universe. Came to harbour, but only trembled like a badly-moored boat.

"Night." America answered, because he can't feel his chest. Maybe he got kicked harder than that. He felt cold, which is not absurd in the cold extremes of the night and darkness.

"Night, m'dear." England yawned, and shook away against America, until exhausted he slept.

* * *

America woke to unbearable heat. The air in the room snipped his lungs up into ribbons, with how unnaturally thick it was. There are gunshots. But those are secondary nature. Secondary characteristics. And they're fading. And America shared the weight of the heat, waking England with a frantic, last-ditched rub of his hands under England's uniform. The world felt like it was ending, and if they're going to go, they're going out like gunpowder near a fire.

England woke, writhed away from America's hands as they grazed his chest, lodged under his uniform. "What-?" He kicked out, and rolled away, palmed back sweaty hair. "Oh, you." England lamely stated, eyes tired and strained, and obviously saying they expected it was somebody else touching him. Somebody who was a stranger.

It's not that hot, and it's not day, and there are no gunshots; America woke up and it was all a dream. And England is still rolled into a sharp, angular, porcupine of a ball in front of him in the half-light. They still are a mess. They're still captive. It's just not the end of the world. And America's heart is fighting like he's the one who woke up to molestation.

"Let's fuck." America begged between chattered teeth.

England's expression fell open, and he opened his mouth, shut it, and then gives a single tense nod. America surged forward, met England half-way between them, and America groaned at the concrete on his back and side, and under his legs and making his shoulders stiff. At England's dry mouth, wet tongue, and the way they're rolling on the floor like they're two teenagers playing grown-ups in silly decisions. The difference is mostly that this isn't a silly decision, not for America, this is the best he's made in a long-not-long life.

England's hand travelled up his thigh, like a knife, trying to cut through his clothes, and America rubbed his calloused palms on the dried sweat on England's torso. Feline flexible, even recovering from a shooting injury, England pried America out of his pants. America gives the highest noise he can make, and it's pitched, whiny, and sugary on the air. Giggled stupidly, so stupidly, when he felt the hard space between England's legs; calling the stove black, even as he rubbed and frotted himself against England.

For several minutes, it's nothing but animal desire.

And then as the panic of the dream fled into America's more-and-more alert mind, it's very different. It's a little fear, and a lot of desperation - a just in case swipe of America's hands on England's cheeks, thumbs rested on the corner of England's eyes. England panted over him, tongue lolled a little out of his mouth, sweaty and right in America's cupped hands.

"I don't-" America talked, and it was abruptly one of his worst decisions. "Feel totally comfortable saying I love you like this; but I really really really like you, and that's why we should..." America swallowed round a lump of tears; so not smooth. They can't be smooth on rough-hewn ground, hands a rough shape on the other's hips like brands. "We s-should make lov- -really really like. We should make likelikelikelike**like**fucking like you."

England only gave another tense nod, and pressed down and America swore in his mouth. And then gasped his name. Felt each jutted curve of England's exposed shoulders, and peeled the last of the shirt away. Left them pulse to pulse, the beat thrumming into step, because this is the military. Saluting kisses on the high curve of America's cheek, and England's collarbone.

Water is a _shit_ lubricant, dry and gone and useless, so is blood, and there is blood. America suspected there would be blood, so, he tried to persuade England into fucking him.

England shook his head, even as he pressed America to the floor, and hooked a foot, pale and thin leg shaking over America's shoulder. Base of the foot, from toe to heel placed firmly on the ground. America twisted to kiss at the joint, that pokes out from the ankle. England's hands slipped on America's sweat, and his sweat, and they're constantly shuffling from the floor, to America's legs, as England forced America into him.

He's not screaming, and that's - that's to his credit, because America knows there's blood, and it's dry and rough, and desert sex. England's face is screwed up in pain, and he's just not hard anymore, because it's not arousing right then; it's agony. The way England tried to breathe through and focus on sailing knots, maybe ceylon tea, anything, anything, and ignore the splitting feeling. The burn that radiates out from where America is _sinking_ into his skin. England is sweating, melting, dissolving in America's hands.

America rubbed his hands on England - hip, curve, shoulder, sharp. Held England's limp head up so they could meet eyes in the dim, almost nothing-to-see, and everything-to-feel light. The tight clench of England's body, and his bunched muscles; England's hands must be cramping. And the acrid smell of blood. America is tearing England open. America hotly told England that he _loves_ him, and England is almost boneless on America, finally penetrated.

They don't thrust, or jerk; they don't move. They feel.

The hungry heat of England that possesses America, and the pulse of America juddered inside England. England groaned, and America thumbed at his cock, because England's coming back into desire. Because god, he wanted England to feel good. If he could do this sort of first over again, he'd have roses and lubricant and dinner and pillows and a shower and lubricant, did he mention he'd have _lube_?

They're not close enough, even with America inside England, and they find an awkward way to wrap their arms about each other and just hold them together. They cling, and America is desperate to inhabit the exact space England inhabits in the universe, just anything to live inside that painful heartbeat and gasping air. England is _there_ and America can be here-and-there, needs to be with him. Keep them together. It's so much better than being apart.

No movement, aside from a tectonic shiveriness from America, and England tightening and loosening around America (in walls, and arms, and teeth on America's neck to dull the pain) they curl so close as to form a single huddled shape in the darkness. Pushing and pulling themselves together, and mewling in the gasped dark here and there, sweat a thin sheet between their bodies and they burn it thinner.

It's simply not perfect, but the details hold them together. The microadjustments to keep America completely inside England, and the way America is pretty sure England is gasping his name.

* * *

**May your quills be ever sharp.**


End file.
